against the stack of papers in front of him. “Just tell me what your problem is. You know that if you don’t tell me I’ll find out anyway.”
I am slightly appalled. I remember writing that line, but it didn’t sound that negative and frightening in my head. I had meant it to be comforting. I was suggesting growth and self-awareness to the young girl, not death. But I know better than to argue the point with Grayson. Like Lila, he is very logical. When it comes to the newspaper, he doesn’t care about intentions, only about what appears in black and white. And the newspaper is everything to him, if something can mean everything to someone as cool and controlled as Grayson.
Grayson is thirty-three. He wrote for the Local section all through college and then became editor of the section three years after graduation. That was all he had ever dreamed of, careerwise, but then his father, who was editor-in-chief of the paper, suffered a massive heart attack at a Giants football game. Before he died he called a staff meeting in his hospital room and named Grayson to replace him as editor-in-chief. The deal was that Grayson would try the job for six months, and if he didn’t work out by consensus of all the editors, he would return to his old position. The six-month trial period came to a close three years ago, and though there have been a few complaints, Grayson has held on to the job.
“I hate it when you rewrite my columns, Grayson. You don’t do that to your other writers.”
“I edit all of my writers.”
“I’m not talking about editing, I’m talking about rewriting.” I am stalling. Grayson is the one person who always thinks highly of me. I don’t look forward to watching his eyes dim and grow hooded.
Grayson shakes his head. “Don’t change the subject. What’s wrong?”
“My gram was in a car accident.”
“I heard about that. Four stitches but she’s fine. Try again.”
“My mother is driving me crazy.”
This gets a small smile, as it is very old news. But his eyes are distracted behind his glasses; he is thinking. “You also chose several letters over the last few weeks involving the problems of pregnant women. So we have depression and pregnant women.”
The pink glasses were a pointless defense. I could wear a sack over my head and Grayson would look to see how my breath moved the material and if my head was bowed and whether he could detect a sigh, or a sob, or a giggle.
When I broke up with Grayson I told him that it was because I didn’t want to be in a relationship anymore. That was true, but the larger truth was that I had just found out I was pregnant with his baby. He never knew about it. Lila was the one who took me to the clinic, waited for me, and drove me home. She was the only person I told. I never thought of that pregnancy as having much of anything to do with Grayson. I thought of it only as a mistake. Maybe that is why I have never been comfortable with the idea of losing Grayson entirely. He is my link to that experience. And now that I am pregnant again, I can’t help but look at the past in a different way. I don’t owe Grayson that truth—I will never tell him about my abortion—but I do owe him something. As my belly grows, I’m afraid all my cards will be laid on the table.
I fiddle with my glasses in my lap. Which time is it? Time to hold my cards, or time to fold and make a run for it? What if all of the truth, not just part of it, comes rushing out?
Grayson meets my eyes, and I squirm. The air in the room is so heavy I feel like I could swim out the door. He sees the truth; I watch his brain click on to the answer.
He says, “You’re pregnant?”
There’s no reason for me to respond.
He guessed it, but there is still shock in his eyes. “You’re keeping the baby?”
“Yes.”
“Was this planned?”
My face is burning. “No. Joel and I broke up.”
He leans back in his chair. He is a small man with glasses and curly brown hair. He runs in the early mornings, and he has a runner’s tight, compact body. “Charlene told me that someone I was close to was pregnant, but I didn’t pay attention to her.”
Charlene